


shattered china

by BlueGirl22



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueGirl22/pseuds/BlueGirl22
Summary: Martin breaks three things in front of people and shortly thereafter has a cry about it, at three different points in his life, to three different effects.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 185





	shattered china

Martin is eleven years old.

He’s sitting on the sofa with his mum, watching an episode of _Coronation Street._ He’s halfway asleep and has absolutely no idea what’s going on story wise, but Mum likes it, so he’s perfectly happy to sit quietly for thirty minutes during dinner for her sake. Before he knows it, the credits are rolling, and he jolts himself awake.

“School tomorrow, isn’t it?” his mum says.

“Yep--” he sits up straight with a lazy jerk-- “I’ll start getting ready for bed.” He doesn’t really want to. The night has been nice, and he’d prefer to stay here for another thirty minutes and not have to move. Nevertheless, Martin jumps to his feet and goes to grab his empty plate from the table by the sofa’s arm, but accidentally jostles the table instead. It tips sideways, and, to Martin’s eye, the next two seconds happen in slow motion. It doesn’t fall over, but the surface tilts just enough for the white porcelain plate to slide right off. It hits the ground, and one second it’s a whole circle, and the next it’s three large pieces and a hundred tiny ones. Martin’s stomach clenches.

A voice comes from behind him. “What was that--oh for Christ’s sake!”

He turns his head and sees his mother walking around him to inspect the damage. “Sorry…” he says weakly.

“‘Sorry?’ What does ‘sorry’ do?”

His natural instinct is to apologize again, but he manages to catch himself before he makes the mistake, instead saying silent.

“Nothing to say?” She gets down on her knees and bends to pick up the larger pieces. “I should stop giving you breakable things, you just go and do this.”

“I can--I can clean it up.” Martin couldn’t raise his voice above a whisper if he tried.

“ _No,_ you’ve done enough, go to bed. You can’t stay up on a school night. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Alright.” Despite the word, he keeps standing there for a few seconds, nerves buzzing in his skull. He feels like this is a trick. She could be trying to make him ask twice, see if he really wants to help, really wants to make it better. He stumbles across some more words to say. “Um, at least it wasn’t a special plate. Not any of nan’s good china.”

His mum straightens up from her hunched position and stares at him, face unmoving and mouth set in a hard line. It feels like his entire body’s gone numb as it sinks in to Martin that he’s said the wrong thing. “Well _I_ liked it, how about that?” Her voice radiates tightly pressed anger, and she twists her features into a mocking frown, imitating his widened eyes. “‘At least it wasn’t a special plate’ how _callous_ is that? I never thought I was raising such a cruel child.”

Martin can’t help himself from stuttering, “I’m, I’m sorry.”

“Well, I don’t forgive you.” She stands up with the three large pieces in her hands. “Go to your room, I don’t want to look at you. I’ll end up saying something harsh, and I don’t like it when I have to do that.” She takes a look at his face. “And _stop_ your blubbering!

He can’t bring himself to move. His blood feels like ice as it hammers in his head. He didn’t even know he was crying.

“ _Go!_ ”

He runs off to his bedroom, not sparing a look behind him until he’s got the door safely closed. He curls up in a ball on top of his sheets. Why did he do that? Why did he say that? Why did he have to go and make her so _angry_ , why does he _always_ have to go and make her angry? Why can’t he just behave himself? He’s lucky she still loves him, still _likes_ him even, with all he gets wrong all the time.

Martin hates crying, hates feeling like he’s looking for attention by making a scene, but his pillow is thoroughly damp by the time he finally drifts off.

* * *

Martin is twenty-nine.

He’s in the break room in the Institute basement, making tea as he so often does. He’s putting the milk back in the fridge when he hears the door open behind him.

He turns. “Oh, hey Jon.”

“Good afternoon, Martin.” A pause, a dry look, a courteous half-smile. “How are you?”

Martin picks up his mug. “I’m alright, I was just about to get back to work, actually.”

“Good. Oh, since I’ve got you--” he unzips a pouch on the satchel he’s carrying-- “can I give you the Herne statement to transcribe? I asked Sasha first, but she said you could do it faster. I’ve got the tape just here.” 

“Of course.” Martin goes to put his mug back down on the counter, but he doesn’t look and his aim is off. The mug clatters to the ground, and he feels tea splatter his ankle before he can register the sound of breaking. He cringes without looking and his hands curl into tense fists.

“Good lord,” Jon mutters, putting his bag over the back of a chair and pushing past Martin to get a roll of paper towels.

Martin wants to apologize, but the words die in his mouth as he steps away from the mess. It takes him a second to replace them with ones that manage to get out unbroken, suddenly feeling pressure building up behind his eyes. “I broke it, I can tidy up.”

“No, you were on your way out, I can do it.” Jon drops some crumpled up paper towel on the floor and stamps it into the damp areas. “Accidents happen.”

The words are cordial, but Martin can physically feel the annoyance coiled in the shortness of them. “Still, I’m sorry for making you--”

“Go on your way, it’s _fine_ ,” Jon says, tersely. 

“Okay.” Martin is glad to be told to leave in such clear terms so he has no choice but to flee from the scene as he so desperately wants to. He turns and heads out the door, trying hard to breathe regularly. No, not back to the assistants’ office, Tim and Sasha will be there, and he _needs_ to be alone. He can’t have people seeing him like this. Looking down the corridor, he spots a supply closet and figures it’s as good a place as any.

He shuts himself in the dark cupboard, breathing in the smell of cleaning supplies. It’s ridiculous to hide from everyone like a scared child and he hates that he has to do this, but all Martin can do now is put his face in his hands and sob quietly. He’s already thinking up excuses for why his eyes will look red.

* * *

Martin is thirty-one.

He doesn’t know what’s been wrong with himself lately.

Mostly, the last two weeks have been almost fairy tale levels of peaceful. Waking up with Jon to the sound of birds chirping and the smell of flowers blowing in through the window is rather similar to many dreams he’s had over the years. But something’s off, something’s making him uneasy.

They’ll be sitting around and chatting for an hour and suddenly Martin’s heart will seize up and thoughts of _what’s going to go wrong_ will start looping in his head. He’ll be tense all morning and it will take him hours to figure out it’s because he was forty-five minutes late on making breakfast for them both. There’s a sort of ever present, creeping fear that any second now Jon’s going to see through the facade and recognize what an unworthy partner Martin is. 

He _knows_ that’s irrational, he _knows_ that Jon, the officially appointed Seer of All Things for the entire human race, certainly already knows all he needs to. Christ, Jon wouldn’t have jumped into the Lonely and wrenched him out of that emotionless void if he didn’t _like_ Martin. But still. A little voice in his head keeps whispering: _clock’s ticking._

They’re in the kitchen one afternoon and Martin washes the dishes from lunch as Jon skims the newspaper. It’s quiet, and Martin isn’t prepared to hear Jon laugh at something he reads, and he drops the bowl he was in the middle of drying.

It crashes to the floor, he meets Jon’s eyes as he puts down the paper, and Martin can’t take it. It’s too much too soon and he _knows_ he’s gone and messed it up now and this is going to be the thing that finally makes Jon realize and he can’t make himself move apart from pressing his arms into his sides and--

“Martin?” Jon starts to stand.

Martin _can’t take it._ He bursts into tears on the spot, holding the dish towel in front of his face so he doesn’t have to see Jon’s reaction as he sputters, “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ ”

He hears the chair being pushed out and footsteps coming over. He tries to still and prepare his body for, for, for whatever’s going to happen, but he’s having quite a bit of trouble trying to stop shaking. God, he hates crying in front of people. 

The footsteps stop just before him, he hears Jon take a shallow breath, and he braces himself. _Take it, you deserve it. Don’t try and pretend you don’t._

“Would you like me to hug you?”

The question and its soft tone are so at odds with what Martin had been building up in his head that surprise almost entirely overrides his shame for a second. He takes the dish towel away from his eyes. “I--what?”

Jon wrings his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m not good at this, ‘comfort,’ it’s a bit--just, would it feel better if I held you?”

Martin’s mind supplies that this is a trick, but he stamps down on that thought and manages to croak out, “Yes.”

Arms wrap around him and he’s being squeezed in a warm embrace. He keeps shaking with soft sobs and he drops his face onto Jon’s shoulder for a bit of stability. A hand starts gently stroking the back of his neck. “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s okay. I’ve got you, you can cry.”

The kind words seem to cut something free in him that harsh ones never could and his breaths turn jagged and choked. “Thank you, I’m sorry, I don’t, I don’t know why I’m reacting like this,” he says between gasps.

“That’s fine,” Jon replies instantly. “You don’t need to.” A pause, and he kisses the side of Martin’s head. “I love you. You can be upset if you want.”

“ _Thank you._ ”

“Of course.”

Every cell of Martin’s being is telling him this is wrong. He should stop making such a scene and properly apologize for everything. But he ignores the impulse. For some reason, being allowed to stand here and sob uncontrollably about a broken bowl into Jon’s shirt is the best feeling he’s had in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, I'm [here](https://bisexual-evanhansen.tumblr.com/) on tumblr as usual if you want, hope you enjoyed :*


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